


Not Yet at the Sun

by DinoDina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Decisions, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mentioned Sports Injury, Quidditch, Teen Romance, implied/referenced suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinoDina/pseuds/DinoDina
Summary: The two great loves of Oliver Wood: Percy Weasley and Quidditch. Though it might be more apt to list them in the order that they matter to him: Quidditch and Percy.Oliver, from the first game he ever sees to the last he plays at Hogwarts, in thirteen scenes.
Relationships: Penelope Clearwater/Percy Weasley, Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood, mentioned
Comments: 5
Kudos: 93





	Not Yet at the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: mention of a traumatic sports injury of a minor character, slight mention of suicidal ideation, implied cheating (but the other person knows), generally poor mindset in relation to sports (specifically Oliver's obsession with Quidditch)  
> It's not... necessarily a happy story. Not sad, though :D

The first Quidditch game Oliver attended was the last game played by the Chudley Cannons's Keeper Ryan Remington.

Twenty minutes into the game, Remington took a ball to the knee and careened backwards through the hoops, already unconscious from shock and pain. A second look showed the ball to be a Quaffle, sent forward too hard and too fast by one of the opposing Chasers, a deliberate shot that cost Puddlemere United a penalty and Remington his career.

Oliver's mum gasped and covered her ears, too terrified to have the sense to close her eyes as well, and his dad was too shocked himself to turn Oliver away from the gruesome sight.

He feared for Remington's career and well-being only after the game was over, but first he feared that the match would stop, and only relaxed when the reserve Keeper triumphantly swooped around the goalposts.

Puddlemere United won the League that year, though rumors followed them for the next two, accusations of dirty games and indecent behavior. Oliver followed the team just as staunchly as the rumors did, but he did so with a gleeful smile. There was a reason they were a good team, and only part of it was talent: they did what needed to be done to win.

* * *

The first time Oliver rode a broomstick was the first time he fell in love.

He loved his parents, of course, and the calico cat his mum had gotten a year previously, for all that he was a bastard that insisted on scratching Oliver if he came within reach, but this was _different_. Like coming home on a cold day, snowman standing outside not looking as nice as he'd wanted it to, only to see his mum standing at the door with hot chocolate at the ready.

The wind was in his hair and below, his father was looking up and blocking his eyes from the spring sun.

Oliver rose far higher than a first-time flyer was supposed to—below, his father grew worried and called after him to come down—but Oliver didn't want to stop. He'd never had trouble on the ground, never felt uncomfortable in his own skin or yearned for something _more_ , but letting the broom direct him was like finding a limb he didn't know he'd been missing for the past nine years.

He'd followed Quidditch ardently for half his life, but his mum worried and his father worked, so while Quidditch was a worthy interest connecting all three of them where other things tended to fail, they refused to budge on the matter of Oliver's safety. So the matter of his own broom, larger than a child's model but still smaller than a real one, was tabled until Oliver's birthday.

It was the only present he'd paid attention to—which was good, considering the meager earnings his father had brought home that year—and he flew daily until his mum accomplished her task of calling him indoors when it rained or snowed.

* * *

The first friend Oliver made was fellow Hogwarts first-year Percy Weasley.

Percy was taller than him, already too lanky for the clearly second-hand trousers under his robes, and had strikingly red curly hair. He wore thick horn-rimmed spectacles and announced, once preliminary introductions were out of the way, that he would be a Gryffindor like his parents and that, years down the line—but not too many years, thank you very much—he would be Minister.

Oliver countered that with his own future: he would be the youngest Keeper Puddlemere United had ever seen.

Then he recognized the name—Weasley—and an awed smile broke out across his face. "Your brother's Charlie, right?"

"Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, Seeker," Percy said in the tone of someone used to relaying this information.

" _Cool_!"

Oliver's older cousins had told him all about Charlie already, but this was his first time actually speaking to someone who had Quidditch in their blood. Though, looking over Percy and the books he carried even though classes wouldn't start for another day, Quidditch didn't seem to be a common interest.

"I can introduce you, if you want."

"Yeah? I want to try out—you think first-years can do that? I've only been flying the past two years—Mum didn't let me up earlier, see—but I've been doing it nonstop since then. There was this one time I almost got stuck in a blizzard, but she—anyway, you can hear about that later, it's pretty interesting. _But_ what I'm asking: he's Captain, right? Your brother. Not that I want a chance to try out just because I'm your friend, but even if I don't get to play this year, you think he can tell me some cool things? Pointers, maybe?"

"I imagine so."

"Awesome." Oliver sat back as Percy made himself comfortable on the opposite side of the compartment, placing the stuffed bookbag carefully at his feet. Percy didn't look too excited to speak more about Quidditch—no matter how much Oliver needed to know what his team was—so he'd circle back to that later. "So what're you excited to study?"

* * *

The first time Oliver flew at Hogwarts, he knocked a third-year off his broom and was dragged to Professor McGonagall's office for a reprimand.

She reminded him of his Great-Aunt Mary, except for the fact that he respected her—Great-Aunt Mary hadn't been a renowned Quidditch player with a control over his entire future. The euphoria of flying was quickly blown away by McGonagall's well-lit office, and the fear of being in it—the fear that she would not only stop him from playing this year but that he would be forbidden from trying out ever again—was quickly brushed aside by tea and biscuits.

"A Keeper, Wood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You'd make a fair Beater."

"Thank you, ma'am, but... I'd like to be Keeper."

"That's up to Charlie, Wood." She made a face as if there was suddenly something very sour in her mouth. "Why did you attack a fellow Gryffindor?"

"I didn't do it on purpose." He'd gotten too close to the ball when they were running drills and Oliver had just... lost control. Just for a bit.

"Well, points for enthusiasm, I suppose, Mr. Wood." She finished her tea and indicated the door. "I'll let Charlie know you're not to be penalized for this."

"Yes, ma'am."

He puzzled over the conversation all night, but understood the next morning, when the Common Room notice board named him the new Gryffindor Keeper.

* * *

The first Quidditch practice Oliver attended was a disaster.

The second wasn't much better.

By the third, however, his natural comfort on a broom was supplemented by a newfound spatial awareness and the support of his team around him.

* * *

The first Quidditch game Oliver played was the last game played by a first-year, a new rule implemented to stop such a disaster from happening again, repealed only for Harry Potter five years later.

But Harry Potter wasn't at Hogwarts yet. Oliver Wood was and, ten minutes into his first Quidditch game, he was careening off his broom and through the goalposts, head making contact with the ground and knocking him out for a week.

As it wasn't a serious injury, Oliver would wake up in his own time—such things were common enough in professional Quidditch—and in a comfortable house near the sea, his parents remained unaware of the incident until Oliver himself woke up and wrote to them.

His letter contained the usual excitement of a boy fresh off his first Quidditch game, supplemented with shame at Gryffindor's loss. The fact that his ears rang when he stood up too quickly was merely a footnote.

* * *

The first person Oliver kissed was Percy, who was still taller than him and still too interested in politics to logically be his best friend.

But Percy was there, he was attractive enough, and he was the only other Gryffindor fourth-year boy; he was hugging Oliver, laughing and grinning, congratulating him on a game well-played.

Gryffindor hadn't won the Cup, having no reserve players to make up for the injuries incurred during the season, but they had won this last game, not only because of Charlie's exceptional Seeking and captaincy but because of Oliver's diligence at the hoops.

"You taste like blood," Percy said when he pulled back, looking slightly down at where, indeed, Oliver's split lip had reopened.

"I taste like victory."

Percy huffed a laugh that was less than complementary but didn't step away when he asked, "Should we rejoin the party?"

Although Oliver nodded and let go of his hand as they descended from their dormitory to the still-boisterous party in the Common Room, he dared another kiss before they went to bed, the warmth in his chest as much from Percy's fumbling around him as from the successful game.

The kiss wasn't a revelation, much in the same way that his first ride on a broomstick hadn't been a revelation. It wasn't life-changing in the way his cousin's books described kisses, but it was… _nice_. Percy was first and foremost a friend, but he was more than that. He _understood_.

He studied twice as hard to get marks better than ever before—and sometimes succeeded in setting the records he so craved—and where another academically-minded roommate would have hounded Oliver, shamed him for the way he treated his textbooks and never quite made sense of the readings, Percy helped. Not all the time, not as gently as he did some of the younger students, but he laid off during Quidditch season and he gave up his notes easily when Oliver had failed to focus on the day's classes.

There was as much respect between them as there was friendship—as much respect as there could be between two hormonal fourteen-year-olds that had just discovered mutual attraction.

Their summer correspondence confirmed that whatever it was between them would continue into their fifth year, in which Percy would take his first step towards authority, Prefect's badge on his chest, and Oliver would lead the Gryffindor Quidditch team into victory and finally get them the Cup.

* * *

The first time Oliver walked onto the Quidditch pitch as Captain, he met Harry Potter.

The boy's head reached Oliver's shoulder, which really wasn't saying much, but a few training sessions would fill him out with the sort of lean muscles Seekers needed.

He was a quick study but had a bit too much of a desire to please—Oliver would have to work on that, because while it was good to have a player that wanted to be good, it set his teeth on edge to think of using someone's insecurities that way.

The short session was a good beginning to his career as Captain. _Captain Oliver Wood_. He'd always thought the phrase had a good ring to it. He hoped to wear the title professionally. Not soon, because he wasn't _that_ good.

But he would be.

* * *

The first time Gryffindor had an honest chance at the Quidditch Cup was the first of Oliver's greatest disappointments.

It ranked below his OWLs, which would arrive over the summer and bring with them a flurry of conversations with his parents about his future and a final admission that it rested firmly in professional Quidditch without a backup plan.

But at the moment, Harry lay unconscious in the Hospital Wing, and there was no one to fill his place. Oliver lay face-down on Percy's bed, listening to the scratch of Percy's quill.

He groaned. "We're cursed."

"You're not cursed." Percy sighed and stopped writing. "Maybe a little jinxed. Look, remember that Croatian match you told me about, where one team caught the Snitch but the other won by two hundred points because the Keeper blocked so well?"

"That's stupid," Oliver mumbled. "You don't end the game just 'cause. Gotta… keep going, you know."

"That's all well and good, but there's only so much devotion to the game a school player can have."

Oliver scoffed. " _I_ have a lot more devotion than that."

"I know you do. But the average player, while still a player, just doesn't."

Percy turned back to his books; there were still exams to take days down the line. Oliver didn't expect him to give up academics to console him about a lost cause, just like Percy didn't expect him to give up Quidditch.

Maybe Gryffindor could still win.

Who was he kidding? His first year as Captain had started off so well, and here he was. He only hoped that the defeat wouldn't be too humiliating.

* * *

The first practice of his sixth year, Oliver dragged his team out of bed at dawn.

The team's groans, yawns, snores, and grumbling were not enough to make him stop. _He_ hadn't gotten much sleep, either, but what was sleep when there was the game to focus on? Gryffindor had the best team in _years_ , it was Oliver's duty as Captain to push them as far as they could go. If that meant getting up at the crack of dawn to talk strategy and run drills—that was that. No one had accomplished anything great by staying in bed, and Oliver only had two years left. No scout would look at a school player whose greatest achievement was "almost won the Quidditch Cup." No, to get Puddlemere's attention, Oliver _had_ to win it.

* * *

The first time Oliver stepped onto the Quidditch Pitch in his seventh year, he did so with a firm resolution. He would win the Quidditch Cup or die trying.

Perhaps that was a bit too far. But after the disappointments of the previous two years—coming so close to winning, so close to making his mark on Hogwarts and attracting the scouts he knew McGonagall called to the games—he was more determined than ever.

Oliver didn't know what he would do if Gryffindor didn't live up to the task.

But how could they not? The team was the best the House had ever had, the strategies he'd planned throughout the summer were more complicated than ever, and without any real relationship outside the pitch, there was nothing to distract him.

Later, looking out at the pitch from the room he shared with Percy, Oliver imagined all the ways the year could go. Sirius Black could break into the castle for a showdown with Harry that would then prevent him from playing in the final game. Oliver had no control over that—although he wasn't above setting up a one-man patrol, consisting of himself, outside Harry's room just in case Black _did_ show up—and so knew that the worry was unfounded; but a more concrete fear gripped his heart.

What if the team _wasn't_ the best Gryffindor had ever had? What if the other Captains had strategized just as much as he had and were just as prepared? What if his mum finally put her foot down and told him to focus on NEWTs and a normal future rather than waiting to get drafted?

Percy, who had just dropped down at his desk, back from Head Boy duties, _did_ focus on NEWTs. He had color-coded planners, Muggle notebooks, and parchment pieces with plans, essays, and notes bursting from his bookbag. His future was planned out just as carefully as Oliver's: get twelve NEWTs to supplement his twelve OWLs, enter the Ministry, and stay there until his hair fell out and eyes stopped working.

Oliver didn't fit into that plan. Maybe he never had. Percy's letters over the summer had made clear that neither of them needed the distraction of romance this year, and it _stung_ —though Oliver agreed—because Percy clearly didn't mind the romance of his Head Girl.

* * *

The first time Oliver considered killing himself was halfway through his final year at Hogwarts.

Later, Fred and George would tease about how close he came to drowning outside on the pitch after the match had ended, but neither would know the fear that gripped Oliver and asked him why he still bothered with his dreams, when he clearly wouldn't ever reach them.

* * *

The last time Oliver played Quidditch at Hogwarts, he won the Quidditch Cup and kissed Percy Weasley.

Percy wasn't his to kiss, but the Cup was his to win, and when the party was finally over, he carried it upstairs to the room he and Percy had shared for the past seven years, and put it onto his bedside table, before getting into Percy's bed.

Later, in the morning, he would look at a sleep-rumpled Percy and fight the smile that threatened to break out even as he reached to smooth out some of Percy's hair. He would kiss Percy, slowly, sweetly, gently, and laze the morning away until Percy would look at the clock and tear out of bed to study. He would look at him, at the desk in his too-small pajamas, and say: "What about Penny?"

"It isn't that simple." The flush across Percy's cheeks would be from shame. "She's smart and nice. Using me as much as I'm using her, anyway. She's going right into St. Mungo's when school ends—her uncle works there. It's easy to get into the training program. It makes sense. For me and Penny. They want to see that you've had a full-rounded life outside of grades. You know that." Oliver would scoff, hurt, and Percy would continue in that voice that didn't seem like it was completely convinced of what it was saying. "You've sacrificed things for Quidditch. It just... It happens, alright? It's normal."

"That's the difference between us, isn't it?" Oliver would say to the pillow, not looking at Percy anymore. "I'm not afraid of my demons. I've lost games, failed tests, I don't even know if there were any recruiters here." He'd accuse: "I know what I am at my lowest."

But now, in the light of the spring moon, Oliver slept in Percy's bed, and periodically opened his eyes—the way one did when he woke to turn over—to look at the shining silver cup. Now, he was at his highest—finally a victor, well on his way to fulfilling his dream.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
